The Dark Hours Of My Being
by April29Roses
Summary: Driven mad by grief after Camlann, Merlin returns to Camelot, with a plan to rescue Arthur from the realm of death itself. Based on and epilogued by a poem by Ranier Maria Rilke. (Warning: This story maintains the canon ending of the series.)
1. There I can find

The Dark Hours Of My Being

Chapter One: There I Can Find

Gaius felt the pain in his heart before he actually heard anything. The sound could have been anything, a mouse, a gust of wind. He ignored the noise and the rising pain in his heart. He had thought nothing of it at first; he had become so used to it.

In the jagged days following the news of Arthur's death, Gaius had become far too familiar with the pain in his heart, a pain deeper than anything he had felt in all his many years. But it was an agony of his spirit only. His own heart, useless steady thing that it was, beat stalwartly in his chest, despite all that had happened, even now. Gaius had grown used to the pain that flooded from the place in his heart where he had kept the treasure that had been Merlin.

His son. Here, alone in his heart, he could be truthful. Gaius no longer knew who his beloved boy might be if he ever returned. He knew that Arthur's death had struck Merlin as a mortal blow, a fatal wound from which he could not die. Magic trembled with it. Even he could feel the uncertain pulse of power that rippled through the forces of magic themselves. And now Samhain was near.

The old man could only guess that Merlin was still alive. He took the pain as a sign and welcomed it, holding it close. It was all that remained of the boy he had loved and nurtured and for whom he would have gladly given his life. Merlin. His son.

He was struggling with the tears, when he felt the wind stir in his chamber. There was the scent of forest, and then the smell of smoke and then he heard the sound of breathing. As his trembling fingers struggled, fumblimg with the candle, he heard the soft, familiar voice breathe the word, 'Leoht' and Merlin was there.

He was stumbling, sinking to his knees, even as Gaius reached him. He enveloped the boy in a hug, but he only sagged against Gaius, as if overcome with weakness. In the brilliant light of the hand fire, Merlin looked drained of all color. He was pale and pitifully thin, the angles of his face more pronounced. Dark circles smudged his expression.

But his eyes. Gaius' heart sank as he looked into the eyes of his boy. Merlin was beyond grief. Sorrow had pierced him so deeply that his soul's mutilation was clear for all to see. In their depths, his eyes were still uncomprehending, horrified. His lips were parched and dry, his hands skeletal as they grasped at the old physician. Merlin didn't recognize him. The shock of that realization ripped through Gaius like a knife. Merlin didn't know who he was.

Something essential was gone; the boy he had known had vanished. In his place was this panting half-mad creature, his eyes deep with terror and guilt. Using Gaius as a support, he struggled to his feet. He looked shocked. He looked about as if his surroundings made no sense.

"Where am I ," he whispered to himself. "The vaults. I missed the vaults..." He was shaking; his grip suddenly tightened on the physician's arm. Fear flowed through his touch. "Samhain. It's almost here..." He looked directly at Gaius in complete desperation. He paused for a heartbeat. Then another moment passed.

"Gaius?" His voice was suddenly puzzled and infinitely young. He looked around in complete confusion, as if only slowly, could he recognize where he was.. He tried to take a step toward the door, but he stumbled and fell. He heaved on his hands and knees, a strangled sob tearing from his throat. His shoulders writhed as if his agony could not be endured. He fought his way to his feet again and he turned to look at Gaius once more. Tears ran from his bloodshot eyes, as he gazed at his mentor. His strength gave out again. He collapsed, shuddering, into Gaius' arms.

"Merlin, I'm here. Relax. Let me help you. Merlin... ", Gaius murmured as he sought to calm the boy's struggle to get up once more.

"Help me Gaius!" Merlin struggled against the old man . Gaius was guiding him towards a cot, but Merlin continued to resist , shoving and pushing weakly with his fading strength, even though he could hardly move without help.

"Time's running out. Help me, please!" His fervent pleading hit his mentor like a blow.

He was holding on the Gaius now with a intense grip, almost as if he was calling on the old physician's magic to steady himself.

"It's Arthur, " he whispered.

Gaius could not bring himself to say anything. They both knew Arthur was dead. Merlin knew the truth. The madness in his eyes told Gaius, he knew the truth. The truth was killing him.

" I can find him! " His voice caught as he forced it out. "I can find Arthur," he repeated, looking up wildly into Gaius' face. For a moment, the old man glimpsed Merlin's familiar determination, but it crumbled, into a sob of pain, as he gasped for air.

"Arthur!" He sounded shocked, as if he had just been stabbed. "He's dead, Gaius. I...I couldn't..." He heaved once more, as if the pain in his heart convulsed him.

"Help me," he whispered again, as his eyes rolled back in his head and Gaius supported him to a resting position on the bed. He fell limply from Gaius' careful embrace. His heart beat fluttered beneath the old man's searching fingers. To the eyes of the physician, he was emaciated, dehydrated and desperately in need of care. But Gaius' heart, his stalwart, faithful heart rejoiced. He recognized the perilous state of Merlin's return. His boy had returned against all odds and he sensed he would soon be gone again. He was mad with grief but Gaius would not lose hope. Merlin was alive.


	2. The days of my life, already lived

Chapter 2 The days of my life, already lived

Merlin awoke, praying he wouldn't. For that moment before he came back to wakefulness, he pleaded, as always, for oblivion. But there was never any mercy. Arthur was dead. From that abyss within himself, there was never any rescue.

He lay limply, not caring where he was, but soon enough, his magic began to whisper, to cajole, to nag at him. Power flowed in eddies and ripples across the emptiness he had become. Samhain approached.

Samhain.

He shot into wakefulness, his head reeling with the sudden movement. He was stunned to see Gaius sitting beside him, his kindly face knit in deep concern as he reached out to calm him. For a moment he felt himself surrender to the comfort in the old man's eyes.

"No!," he roared. Strength flowed into him, like a tide, fueled by desperation and despair. He stumbled out of the bed before the old physician could stop him, but he fell again. Merlin got up and staggered to the door and then to the table. His hands found a pitcher of water, as if drawn there. He drank from the pitcher sloppily, not caring about the mess, dousing himself with half of the contents, feeling himself come back to some semblance of sentience with the sluicing of the water.

Samhain!

He looked back at Gaius, now standing stunned in the doorway to his old chamber.

"I can find him, " he said as steadily as he could. "It's in the vaults, Gaius. The Horn of Cathbadh. I can call Arthur from the standing stones. I'll find him and bring him back. "

The old man had not moved,but his eyes mirrored Merlin's own pain.

"My boy, the standing stones are at least a day's journey from here. You know the dangers of the Horn yourself..."

"How long until sunset?"

"It's still early morning, Merlin, but you need help. Let me..."

"No."

He turned away so decidedly, that Gaius gulped.

Merlin glanced at the windows, at the warm familiar room. This had been his home. A longing for his life, for his real life, his life with Arthur, rose up so strongly that he gasped in shock. His head spun as he felt his knees tremble. Everything had been swept away in an instant, everything that mattered, gone. He longed to put his head on the table and weep. He wanted ... it no longer mattered what he wanted. He could not give way now. Merlin hardened his resolve. He would need strength for the spell.

Perhaps. Perhaps there would be time to rest, he thought. Let Gaius believe he was accepting help and he would cease the torments of his comfort and his sympathy. Merlin could not afford even the smallest of distractions. He needed to rest but without questions asked. Nothing could stop him from his rescue of Arthur. Surely tonight, he told himself.

The very thought, eased the pain that lived at the center of his heart now. He could breathe a bit. He would rest, then the vaults and the stones. The vaults and then, the stones. But he could feel the Horn calling to him even now.

No, he decided, his head swimming. Best to get the Horn first. Then rest. The Horn was calling him. Before Gaius could take another breath, with the merest nudge of magic, Merlin sent himself into the vaults beneath Camelot.

Magic contained in such close quarters echoed in the faint sweet scent of the vault. It thrilled though him like the greeting of an old friend. To Merlin's eyes, arcane treasures glinted everywhere in the darkness. Faint auras of light came from within some of the objects, almost like thrumming candle light. Merlin's soul hushed letting the power in the room support him as he drew in the welcoming atmosphere, almost like taking a deep breath. It steadied him and his head cleared a little. His eyes went to the Horn immediately, for it called to him.

He, himself, had placed the Horn in a leather case, ornamented and and marked in symbols of the Old Religion and in words as well, warning of it's perilous nature. There it lay in a place of honor, in the vault of treasures. He grabbed it roughly, tearing open the wrappings and sighing in relief as it's power shimmered in his heart. The veils between the worlds were weakening as the hours passed. The Horn vibrated with power. His hands shook as he pulled it from the case.

Soon. Soon. Cradling the Horn, he let his power carry him back to the gentle light that was Gaius. He could not lose his focus now, he told himself. He could not afford to lose himself in the comfort of Gaius' love for him. But his body could not continue without some help, and he needed his body for the spell. Nothing could shake him from his rescue. Not even Gaius. Not even his own exhaustion. Not even the ceaseless grief that poured from the gaping mouth of a wound that was his heart

Arthur was gone. To live this way, in a world without his king, without hope, in this abyss of darkness that ate at the very core of his being, was a hell beyond imagining. To continue suffering, his own heart convulsing and mortally wounded and yet be unable to die; to know he would never be whole again, however the years might try to heal him, that was the final irony of his fate.

He stumbled again, clutching the Horn to his chest protectively. Focusing his strength, he shot into Gaius' chambers again, but he lost his footing as his world shifted and he lurched. He swayed, but before he could fall, Gaius' arms were around him.

He sank into his support gratefully, hating himself for his cruelty to his beloved mentor. Time to rest. He only needed a bit of help to get by.

"Water, " he whispered. He found himself on the ground with no memory of falling, but he no longer cared. Gaius was holding his head up, gently urging him to drink again, even though his clothes were still cold and damp from his last attempt. He swallowed, and then lay back exhausted. Gaius shimmered in his sight, his heart open, his magic steady.

Veils of power shredded as his sight wavered and blurred. Gaius was gone and he was alone. He felt himself fading away, like the ghost he was, like the world around him. And then he saw Arthur. No matter how he tried to stop it, he saw Arthur's face again. Arthur. He was dying. No matter how tightly he held him in his arms, he was dying and he could do nothing to stop it. He prayed for the memory to stop, but it never did. His world ended as Arthur tried to hang on for a second more, his eyes struggling to focus, and then he was swept inexorably away. Something in his heart extinguished with a sudden, endless agony. Gone. Away.

Swept away, down to the hell where he lived now, to his personal armageddon, to the end of all things. Here he existed endlessly, unable to believe in reality, sickened by his failure. He was swept away in his torrent of grief, his heart torn beyond blackness. He lost himself.

It was endlessly grey. Everything muted, half-alive, like his own heart. There. The shadow of the dragon haunted the moonlit nights, desolate as an orphaned child. The hills and valleys might heave with his agony, but the earth never swallowed him, the stones never covered him. The forest shook in despair, and the lightning struck in a blaze of destruction, but never it killed him. It never killed him.

Merlin began to shake in fear, and now Gaius was looming in his vision again, like a tower of retribution. "What happened?" His white hair flared silver in the light. The old man's voice deepened past the weakened quaver of despair that haunted his every breath. Was it compassion or disgust that Merlin read in his face? "What happened?"

"I failed," whispered Merlin. His voice filled with loathing, as if he could kill himself with spite alone. "I failed!" He heaved in anguish, closing in on himself.

"Help me, Gaius, " he pleaded. "It has to be now... for Arthur!" He shook the old man in desperation, ignoring the tears that welled in his mentor's eyes.

"Arthur!"

Wordlessly, his eyes blinded by sorrow, Merlin set a sleeping spell around himself, timing it to release at the setting of the sun. He felt his mentor's arms surround him tenderly. For a moment he regretted letting Gaius ready him for this final battle. It would strip the old man's soul bare to find out what Merlin truly planned. But Merlin had no choice. He had to find Arthur, there in the land of the dead. He must.

"Take care of me," he whispered to Gaius as sleep took hold. "Make me stronger, Gaius. Make me strong enough to bear the spell. I can find him there, in the land of the dead, Gaius. I can find him. I trust you. Don't... don't fail me." Tears burned in his eyes, and Gaius' face was obscured by the stinging flames of his regrets. He dissolved into bitterness. The spell held him lightly and he rested.


	3. And held like a legend, and understood

Chapter 3 "and held like a legend, and understood"

Gaius tended to Merlin throughout the long day. He barred the door from the inside and ignored the few timid knocks he heard. No one would think it strange; he was usually left alone in his grief.

He found he could reach through the silver glow that surrounded Merlin like a living blanket. He could move him, but the stasis held him gently, and no matter what happened, Merlin did not wake. He was absent from his body. The old man cradled him gently in his arms as he helped him drink, sip by sip, using various strengthening tisanes and herbal elixirs in the liquid. He fed him broth, hoping to ease his hunger. He bathed him and massaged him, helping to relax his stiffened muscles, soothing the thousand small lacerations to his body that were proof of his callous disregard for his own self as he grieved for Arthur. He used herbs and heated stones to increase the flow of blood and color returned to his son's sleeping form. His hands and feet were warm and he breathed easily in a restful way, even beyond the strength of the spell that held him quiescent. But he could not erase months of steady neglect and malnutrition. Merlin was pitifully thin, his bones clearly visible in his chest and extremities. Gaius had seen enough siege victims to see Merlin was beyond feeling hunger in the normal way.

Gaius thought about calling the Queen. Merlin's presence would bring her comfort and some closure, but Merlin was clearly unable to communicate with Gwen at this point. He hardly made sense to Gaius. Merlin seemed to fade in and out of coherence, driven by his idea to bring Arthur back from the land of the dead. The warlock's uncomprehending gaze still struck at Gaius' heart. It was better for Gwen to not see Merlin in this state. Honesty forced him to admit that his true motivation was far more selfish. He feared what one look from Gwen could do to Merlin in his fragile state.

He shuddered to think of his boy, lost for so long, hopeless in his knowledge of Arthur's death. With a trembling finger he traced the path of tears that marked his face periodically. Even in the deep stillness of his spell, his sorrow still shadowed his every breath.

No one had been able to find Merlin. In the aftermath of the battle and the last desperate attempt to save Arthur, his servant had disappeared and though there had been reports of a 'madman' wandering through villages wreaking havoc, no one had seen him. Stories were told of whole forests that were flattened for a half a mile in many directions. Other people had told of waterfalls and dams that had existed for generations changed in the course of one night; boulders and earth strewn as if a giant had thrown them aside . There were reports of lightning storms so severe that the source had to be magical; the keening howls of dragons had been heard in the heart of the storm. And Gaius recalled again, with that familiar fire of pain that still haunted him, the heaving ripples of power that flooded from the broken heart that drove his boy.

Gaius felt the weight of his age and his sorrow. His fears were the fears of an old man who had spent his life in hiding and in lies. Merlin was far from his ability to mend or to comfort, quiescent in his stasis. It hardly mattered if he made a fool of himself. So he allowed himself the actions of a fool.

He held his son wordlessly through the long golden afternoon. He held him close under the shimmering cover of the silver stasis spell. He stroked his hair and told him how much he loved him. He spoke of how his life had changed with Merlin's arrival. The old physician told of how watching he and Arthur grow into their destiny had breathed life into him again, filling him with hope, even on the darkest of days. He spoke of how the deadly pall of the Purge had dissipated with the arrival of their friendship. He talked about Arthur last of all. He told him how he had watched the desolate golden prince grow into a man of honor and courage, a king of rare compassion and daring. He spoke of all that had passed through his broken heart as the months had passed since Arthur's death, and all the while, he cherished each breath that his son took. He held Merlin with love, because he knew, fatefully, in his deepest soul, that he would die in his attempt to find Arthur. His own heart could not lie.

Gaius watched with a sinking heart as the sun sank lower in the sky. The light was brilliant, almost magical, and the veils between worlds thinning to gossamer as the sun approached the horizon, Merlin's eye lashes fluttered and he took a deep breath, almost as if he was going to yawn. The gentle intake of breath became a shuddering gasp and Merlin turned over suddenly, convulsively, burying his head in the sheets. His shoulders heaved and his body stiffened, his hands grasped at the tangled covers as his agony filled him, but no sound escaped him. A few heart beats passed, and finally Merlin stirred again. He panted as if he was catching his breath.

Gaius could not reconcile the unholy desperate look in Merlin's eyes. His voice was soft and familiar, but there was almost nothing left of the boy he had loved.

"Thank you Gaius," was all he said. He rose slowly, looking out the window to the rising color in the western sky. He seemed calm now, resolute, with hardly any sign of his prior agitation. Gaius decided to risk a plea. What more could be lost, he reasoned.

"The high priestesses trained for years and underwent rituals of cleansing meditations before they used the Horn of Cathbhad, Merlin..."

"I don't have time for that," came the tranquil reply. He turned to look at his mentor and again Gaius was shocked by the abyss in Merlin's eyes.

"You don't understand, Gaius." His voice quavered, the pain so evident in his tone that the old man could barely stand to listen.

"I could tell you what you want to hear. I could tell you that I'm going to come back to Camelot and help Gwen. I know I shouldn't abandon you. Without Arthur...His voice shook. "I know everyone here needs me... I do. It's what he would want; it's what he would expect of me." He swallowed, as if he could not find his next words. The warlock shook his head hopelessly.

"I could tell you that I have to find Arthur for Albion. My whole life has been about the prophecy since the day I got here! And Kilgarrah..." The words began to pour out of him faster , as if his agitation was driving him. "I could tell you it's because I failed Arthur! That I was born to save him and I failed. I could tell you I'm dying inside." He looked up at Gaius then, but his mentor could not meet his eyes. He tried to even out his voice, taking another shaking breath. "But none of those are the reason. The world is so ... wrong. So wrong. I have to fix it, because.. but you know why.. you have to know." His eyes pleaded, red rimmed and agonized, as he stepped closer to Gaius. His fingers dug into the old man's shoulders.

"I can't," he whispered, at last,. He turned away. His back stiff with pain, with surprising anger. He took a few steps away, breathing heavily, as if he was trying to stay calm. "I can't," he whispered again.

"Look at me," he said hoarsely. "Look at me! This is all that's left. I'm not even here, I'm ... not Merlin. You know me," he whispered urgently. His hand gripped hard on Gaius' forearm. "Tell me what you see Gaius. Where is Merlin?" Almost as if he had prayed for a different answer, tears flooded his eyes in the wake of the old physician's silence. He seemed ready to pull at his hair but his hands only grasped weakly at the air in frustration. "Not Merlin. Not Merlin ever again! I have all this power,my magic..." He caught his breath with a strangled whisper, "But I didn't save him, Gaius. I...I couldn't. Don't you understand. I'm lost! I...I can't hold on to myself, and the world is wrong." He gestured at his frail self, his bones standing out in the slanting shadows of the setting sun. The young warlock closed his eyes, as if taking one breath more would bring him to his knees.

"It's now", said Merlin, his eyes were filled with tears. He reached out to touch Gaius' face with a trembling touch. His hand stroked Gaius' cheek with a tenderness that broke the old man's heart.

"I will take his place in the land of the dead, Gaius. A life for a life, power for power and the Old Religion will be appeased, the goddess satisfied. My destiny will be fulfilled and Arthur, King of Camelot, the Once and Future King. I will have brought him to his destiny!" Then, with a flare of gold, his eyes blossomed into magic. The smell of it overwhelmed Gaius, sweet as the smile of the boy he remembered, and when he opened his eyes, the sun had set, Merlin was gone, and night had fallen. The spirits of the dead keened in the winds that swept around the turrets of Camelot.

Samhain had arrived.


	4. The knowing comes

Chapter 4 The knowing comes...

Merlin lifted the horn to his lips. The humming of its power grew into a torrent of sound, piercing through the fog that filled the circle of the Stones of Nemeton. The immense age of the dark stones soothed him. They were a bulwark of magic, replete with a deep sense of familiarity and danger, with an echo of legend. He felt the first breath of the unworldly wind race against him. His magic skirled against the constraints of the stones, calling into the depths of another world. To hold the opening as he moved into the circle, took no more strength than moving aside a curtain. Closing his eyes, he stepped forward into the sacred space. But where he expected to find the figure of the Cailleach, where he half-expected to see Arthur seething at him, he saw only shadows in the fog. He heard the soft sounds of breathing, the rustle of clothing.

"Arthur" called Merlin. His voice was soft, tentative. It sank into the unnatural stillness of the fog.

His handfire shot up into the sky, it's blue light shining through the fog in an eerie way. Figures began to move; vague, almost substantial fingers plucked at him. The whisper touches suddenly grew stronger; invisible fingers were snatching at his clothing, quickly growing into shoves. Insubstantial faces swam in the cold mist. Merlin turned slowly, comprehension dawning. He was surrounded. The circle of stone was filled with dead.

Bandits, assassins, mercenary soldiers, archers, old threats materialized out of the fog. The face of a bandit, his face disfigured by a blow to his head, leered at Merlin. He heard the ring of steel. Skeletal hands shoved him behind the knees and he stumbled into a dark grunting shadow. The figure shoved his face up to Merlin's, still reeking of filth and blood and spat in his face.

"You killed me," he whispered in Merlin's ear, and then he screamed. With his horrific squeal, the shadows clawed forward.

"Crushed me!" The voices surged and the blows came harder as the warlock fought his way to his feet again.

"Burned me!"

"Broke my neck!"

"Killed me you did, you skinny bastard!"

The crowd surged at him, fate written on their ghostly bodies, their eyes reflecting their desperation at the moment of their death and Merlin was being swept into their retribution. Invisible bodies shoved at him. They hurled him amongst themselves; he lost his balance, stumbling into the insubstantial wave of anger that clutched at him. But his own anger came to his defense. It surged out of him, like a torrent of lava, destroying mindlessly, his eyes flaring gold as he swept the field clear effortlessly. "Forlætaþ," he shouted. *

The spirits were tumbling now, dissolving into wisps and tatters of anger, an ash of darkness swept away by the golden motes that shot from his hand as his spell dismissed them, like so much chaff in the wind.

As he turned, the figure of Uther came at him though the mist, his eyes shining with unholy contempt and a righteous anger.

"What have you done?" His voice thundered through the fog, but Merlin had no time for this confrontation. He cursed the delay. He had to find Arthur. The scar on Uther's forehead stood out starkly on his pale face as he swam into view.

"It is you who have brought my son to this terrible fate. It was your influence, you thrice damned sorcerous bastard. All of this is on your hands!"

He reached out to strangle Merlin. His wraith hands fastened around his throat with a burning cold, but Merlin threw him off with contemptuous shove.

"You can do nothing here, Uther! You could not face the truth when you were alive and now you are nothing more than a vicious memory. Go!" With a warding gesture of his hand, the sputtering figure of Uther faded into a fog of red and muted silver. His clutching hands were the last to disappear and Merlin looked ahead into the fog with a sudden stab of satisfaction. The slight figure of a blond woman reached out to him in sadness but he strode past her. Somewhere in this cold nightmare was his King.

"Arthur!" he called again. He ran forward, but in the fog he was quickly lost in the shifting obscurity.

Glowing snakes on a shield surged by in an eddy of golden motes, a scarred and hideous face leered, the Sidhe of Avalon glared at him from the roiling mist that now surrounded him. But Merlin could not be deterred. He brushed the energies aside, his eyes scanning the clouds of his enemies, who even now surged towards him their silent mouths frozen in a wordless rictus, forever screaming his name. His eyes blazed and the mists faded once more.

There in the mist, he glimpsed a figure that made him rush ever more quickly through the fog. Lancelot. He was sure of it. His cape swirled as he moved in the dim light. The knight turned to face him, his eyes grave and kind as always. "Merlin," the knight began softly.

"Help me Lancelot," cried Merlin, rushing to embrace the knight. "You must help me find Arthur!, Quickly, or we are lost!" The figure did not move , even as Merlin turned as if to continue looking. "He must return to the world of the living in my place." His voice slowed as a sinking fear began to uncoil. "Where is he?"

But Lancelot did not answer, his eyes pleading for understanding as he looked down at his friend. Merlin's eyes filled with horror.

"Merlin, he's..."

The warlock twisted in pain, gasping as he shoved at the knight. Merlin tore himself away from his former friend with an inarticulate cry, his frustration and anger piercing through the fog. Lancelot's immaterial hands scrabbling at nothing as he tried to call Merlin back.

"Listen to me," he shouted, but the warlock was gone, slipping through the fog like a spirit himself. More chain mail shimmered in the nightmare dark. Lancelot called to him again. The thought he glimpsed Elyan, trying to turn him, urging Merlin to wait. But he could not pause.

In the shifting fog, in the doubts and fears of his heart, he could not find Arthur. The surging shapes and voices took on a delusional sharpness and his heart pounded in his chest. His brain was thundering with power and despair and the voices of those he had lost called out to him.

The warlock tripped, crashing headlong into Will, who was red faced and shouting. He shoved Merlin backwards and then caught him by his shirt again. He pulled Merlin to himself roughly, "Listen," he growled, but the dark haired young man jerked away from him, ignoring the biting truth in Will's voice as he called to him. "You will have to listen!"

Merlin panted in the darkness, trying to choke back sobs that threatened his focus. His eyes searching still for some sign of the King. He glimpsed a slight dark figure in the shifting mists. Freya. His heart exploded with hope once more as he rushed towards her. She called his name and he found her pliant form pressed against his own with wonder. Freya looked up at him with a terrible sorrow, with a soul shaking compassion in her dark eyes.

"He's not here, Merlin." There was nothing but sadness and love in her voice and Merlin felt his heart sink. It couldn't be. He could not understand. He shook his head.

"No," he whispered desperately "Not this! No!"

"Merlin, please listen to me... He's waiting."

"No," he screamed, backing away from Freya, as if she had become his worst nightmare. He stumbled backward, running once again.

He was here to take his place. This was part of the trial he told himself. He was being tested,the dead were only testing his resolution. The surety that been his when Arthur lived, gushed from his aching heart like a fatal wound. He was certain of nothing. He looked about hopelessly. Faltering.

Merlin saw only the curling swirls of the fog that obscured his vision. Cold and damp, the air was still thick with the cries of the dead seeking their retribution. They echoed strangely through the fog. It shimmered,almost like a heat haze, but it was unnaturally cold. The mist curdled and shifted. He rushed forward, seeing a figure in the depths of the fog, but he crashed into another shape that rose up before him suddenly. It was a figure so familiar that Merlin felt no start of fear but then his heart began to pound anew. Guilt and sorrow filled him .

"Gawaine" he whispered.

"No, please, not...," he murmured brokenly, his anguish too deep for more than this . "Gawaine, I've killed you all," he whispered. The agony in his eyes was deeper than tears, he shook with the pain as he looked up at his friend. But the knight reached for him with a terrible neediness, as if his heart could not rest.

"I failed..." said Gawaine. His whisper was heart-broken , but Merlin could not bear to hear any more. The warlock fell to his knees as if his friend had run him through with a sword, and he collapsed at the knight's feet, sobbing incoherently.

His heart was pleading as he looked at the ghost of the man who had embodied the very strength and joy of mortal life. "What have I done? Gawaine, I'm sorry... I'm lost... There isn't much time." Struggling to speak, he reached blindly towards the knight. "Help me. I have to find Arthur..."

The knight's hands touched Merlin's shoulders, his grip still strong and sure, but Merlin could not bear the comfort he found there. He tried to twist away but Gawaine held him firmly.

"Merlin," said the knight, quietly. "Listen mate. He's not here. Arthur's not here."

"But he died, Gawaine! He died in my arms and I..." He choked on his words.

Elyan and Lancelot were beside them suddenly. Their dark, tragic eyes were focused on him, as he looked back at them uncomprehending.

"He's not here," he said, as if to himself, shocked and shattered. "Not here." He staggered to his feet, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. He tried to breathe into his denial, but the truth sang to him. The truth struck through him with a fatal agony. There was no escape.

Planting his feet, he breathed into the magic that eddied and swirled against the stones of the circle. The mist cloyed at him, the ghosts of tears. The dead were nearing. The waves of dead came through the fog, riding a crest of retribution, weapons and limbs and faces shimmering blood. The trio of knights turned and rose as one, as if to defend him. The warlock felt as if his heart was giving out at last, gashed open by this last irony. The hopeless courage of his companions wounded him; their friendship struck him through with an unnameable pain. The Merlin they remembered and sought to defend was no more. It no longer mattered that he had never needed their protection. It no longer mattered that they would never know who he truly had been.

He was no longer Merlin. Arthur was beyond his reach. Gone to a place where even the most loyal friend could not follow. Even in the spirit world, his king could not be found. The fires of his anger filled him. The injustice, the fate that had driven them to this unbelievable hell consumed him. Was it for this that he had sacrificed all he loved, all he might have been. Had he lost everything, only to face this, his last and most despairing failure? The roiling mass of souls surged towards them. His power swept around him like a wave, swelling and tumbling, sending every apparition it touched into a column of fiery pulsing. But even that was not enough to quell the anger that possessed Merlin in that moment.

"Then let me burn," he cried. He let his magic consume him, to flood him, to make him blaze like lightning. He screamed with the pain of the convulsing earth itself.

Fire blazed from the circle of stone, it surged against their magical confines and towered into the endless dark of the night. Dragonfire could not hold the agony that filed him, that blazed out of him, that lit him like a living pyre as he screamed his loss into the land of shadows. In the end, when the morning rose cold and heavy with clouds, only ash blew in the silent, half toppled circle of stones.

* Forlætaþ - Leave/surrender

A/N I am not completely evil. (ha!) Merlin still lives. One more chapter and then the epilogue. My deepest and most heartfelt thanks to everyone who is reading this story. Your support means more to me than you can know.


	5. Living Roots

Chapter 5: Living Roots

It was those last dark hours of the night, before the dawn began to rise, that brought Merlin his only solace. There, in the dark hours of his being, he would let himself feel. He would let his heart beat again with joy and with wretchedness. Memories could impale him in tenderness, regrets could fill him with fire. Sorrow would sing to him of the promise of Camelot destroyed in the in the wrongness of Arthur's death.

He did not always remain near Avalon. There were many long seasons when the warlock walked the lands of Albion again. There were long years when the world claimed him. Arthur's time had not yet come, but life went on, whether Merlin wished it or not, as was it's wont. And so that he should stand ready the day his King should return, Merlin left the the lake of Avalon. He studied and he learned. He absorbed magic and science all the way to the most dangerous borders of their promises. He had adventures and met many friends. He watched his friends live and he watched them die. From those mortal losses, the warlock healed and he moved on.

But eventually, always, as the years passed, the poison of Arthur's loss would weaken him. It would tear into him until he could not bear the madness of pain that ate at his strength, that weakened his wonder and stole his sleep. The unending abyss of Arthur's absence would begin to warp his compassion, pulling him into the maelstrom of unpredictable callousness and the self involvement of despair. Until he became what he hated. Until he hated everything he had ever loved. And when that terrible day came, as it always did, that his own darkness that twisted him past recognition, he would return once more to the lake of Avalon.

Unrecognizable in his immortality, he would stand and sink into another understanding of time, and his magic would bore deep into the earth, binding him in its living roots. His magic would climb high into the light, and his leaves would lend their voice to the wind. For a while, he would find peace. Focused on the seasons, he could bear the passage of years. There were dawns when the veil was so thin that he could almost glimpse Arthur across the divide of light. There were sunsets where he knew that only a breath separated him from the promise of Albion.

Here, he was at one with the land and it tended to his needs. The birds sang their daily songs of eternal devotion to the sun, and it did not matter if Merlin wept or laughed. The cycles of the seasons let him burn in his loss and freeze in his despair without comment, and still life would flow through him, high into the leaves, where the deep miracles of light and life were as ordinary as breathing. This was as close to healing as he could approach. Let others move on and find happiness after their world was dissolved by death. Let time reform them into new loves and dreams. That was their nature. His had always been another fate.

Merlin welcomed his madness. He filled himself with the scent of the night, he renewed himself in the depths of his magic, holding fiercely to the dark earth, to the chains of time itself. Although this fate had been thrust upon him, it was he who chose to wait. He chose to believe, and no matter the ceaseless march of war and plague and disaster upon the earth, he found a truth that kept him strong in the face of the merciless crush of time. For no matter the years of joy, the thrill of learning, the sweep of history or the tenderness of friends, no matter the crushing madness that tore him to pieces for days or weeks or even years, there was a truth that sustained him in both light and darkness. There was no limit to the faithfulness of the human heart.

The warlock held fast to the dream of Albion, knowing there was more to their legend than had yet come to pass. He would wait. This may been decided since the day he had begun to serve Arthur. While fate may have bound their destiny; it could never be the master that tethered him to time.

Fate could not compel love; fate could not summon hope. It was only his mortal heart that gave him the strength to go on.

Hoping, always hoping, he found omens in the murmur of the winds, in the sting of the driving rain. The warlock remained faithful to the promise Kilgarrah had first whispered into his ear so long ago, in the innocent, fearless wisdom of his youth.

It was for Arthur.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

There I can find, as in old letters,

the days of my life, already lived,

and held like a legend, and understood.

Then the knowing comes: I can open

to another life that's wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree

rustling over a gravesite

and making real the dream

of the one its living roots

embrace:

a dream once lost

among sorrows and songs.

Ranier Maria Rilke


End file.
